“Where are the Spoonbills?” he asked.
“By now they will be close around Brightwell, ready to run to my whistle.”
“Are they armed?”
“With staves only. We are men of peace.”
“Suppose Norreys has a troop of Kingston’s Horse for garrison. Or even that he and Kyd and a servant or two have pistols. We are too evenly matched to administer justice in comfort.”
“Then we must use our wits,” was the answer. “But a file or two of your Highland muskets would not be unwelcome.”
The wish was fulfilled even as it was uttered. As they swung round a corner of road, half a mile from Brightwell gates, they had to rein in their horses hard to avoid a collision with a body of mounted men. These were halted in a cluster, while by the light of a lantern their leader made shift to examine a scrap of paper. The sudden irruption set all the beasts plunging, and the lantern went out in the confusion, but not before Alastair had caught sight of him who had held it.
“God’s mercy!” he cried. “Charles Hay! Is it Tinnis himself?”
“You have my name,” a voice answered, “and a tongue I have heard before.”
Alastair laughed happily. “Indeed you have heard it before, Mr. Charlie. In quarters and on parade, and at many a merry supper in the Rue Margot. Your superior officer has a claim upon you.”
The lantern, being now relit, revealed a tall young man with twenty troopers at his back, most of them large raw lads who were not long from the plough tail. The leader’s face was flushed with pleasure. “Where in God’s name have you been lurking, my dear sir?” he cried. “I have looked for you at every bivouac, for I longed to clap eyes again on a soldier of Lee’s, after so much undisciplined rabble.”
“The story will keep, Charles, and meantime I claim a service. You are on patrol?”
“A patrol of Elcho’s ordered to feel our way down this valley and report at Derby town by breakfast. ’Tis a cursed difficult affair riding these hills when there is no moon.”
“You have time and to spare before morn. Turn aside with me here for a matter of two hours. You shall have a good supper to cheer you, and will do your Prince a distinguished service. I pledge my word for it.”
“Lead on,” said Mr. Hay. “I am back in Lee’s again, and take my orders from Captain Maclean.”
He cried to his men, and the troop wheeled behind him, where he rode with Alastair and the Spainneach. “Now tell me the ploy,” he said. “It should be a high matter to keep you away from Derby this night, where they say the fountains are to run claret.”
“We go to do justice on a traitor,” said Alastair, and told him the main lines of the story. Mr. Hay whistled long and loud.
“You want us to escort the gentleman to Beelzebub’s bosom,” he asked.
“I want you to escort him to the Prince.”
“Not the slightest use, I do assure you. His Highness has a singular passion for gentry of that persuasion. Yesterday Lord George’s force brought in a black-hearted miscreant, by the name of Weir, caught red-handed no less, and a fellow we had been longing for months to get our irons on. Instead of a tow or a bullet he gets a handshake from His Highness, and is bowed out of the camp with ‘Erring brother, go and sin no more.’ Too much damned magnanimity, say I, and it’s not like we’ll get much of it back from Cumberland. Take my advice, and hang him from the nearest oak, and then apologise to His Highness for being in too much of a loyal hurry.”
The gates of Brightwell to Alastair’s surprise stood open, and in the faint light from a shuttered window of the lodge it seemed as if there had been much traffic.
“Where are your Spoonbills?” he asked the Spainneach.
“I do not know. In furze bush and broom bush and hazel thicket. But when I whistle, in ten seconds they will be at the door of Brightwell.”
The troopers were left in the dark of the paved court, with certain instructions. Accompanied by the Spainneach, Mr. Hay and Mr. Hay’s troop sergeant, Alastair rode forward to the great door, and pulled the massive bell-rope. A tinkle sounded inside at an immense distance, and almost at the same moment the door was opened. There was a light within which revealed the ancient butler.
“We have business with Sir John Norreys.”
“Sir John awaits you,” said the man. “But are there not others with you, sir?”
So the conspirators had summoned their friends, doubtless a troop of Kingston’s Horse from down the water. A thought struck him.
“We are also appointed to meet a Scotch gentleman, Mr. Kyd,” he said.
“Mr. Kyd arrived some minutes ago,” was the answer, “and is now repairing his toilet after his journey. Will you be pleased to enter?”
Alastair spoke in French to Mr. Hay, who gave an order to his troop sergeant, who took the horses and fell back; and the three men passed through the outer portals into the gaunt gloomy hall, in which Alastair had shivered on his first visit. Tonight there was a change. A huge fire of logs roared up the chimney, and from a door ajar came a glimpse of firelight in another room, and the corner of a laden table. Miserly Brightwell was holding revel that night.
Hay flung himself on a settle and toasted his boots.
“Comfort,” he cried, “after bleak and miry moors, and I have a glimpse of the supper you promised me. Sim Linton will hold the fort against any yokels on carthorses that try
